Silje screamed, and Freya, unable to see what was happening, screamed too.
Freya cried, ‘What is going on?’ She sniffed at the air. ‘Silje? Is that you? What are you doing here?’
Gunther squinted at Silje in the poor light. ‘Miss Ohnstad,’ he said, and put his gun away. ‘That is a fair question. What are you doing here?’
‘Snooping, no doubt!’ Mrs Tufte said. She looked down, and seemed very surprised to find the biscuits and the teapot lying on the floor. ‘For her friends, the Germans!’
‘Please, Mrs Tufte! She is not a spy.’ Freya jumped up and ran to stand in front of Silje. ‘She just came to see me! Isn’t that right, Silje?’
Silje was too overjoyed to speak.
‘Then she should have knocked – at the front door!’
‘I think that perhaps we should calm ourselves,’ Gunter said, unfolding his tall frame until he was standing upright. He had to stoop to prevent his head from pushing against the ceiling. ‘Mrs Tufte, perhaps some more tea?’
Mrs Tufte opened her mouth to protest, but a stern look from Magnus sent her grumbling to the kitchen.
‘Now then, Silje,’ said Gunther. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘It is as Freya said. I have come to speak with her. I wish her to come home, but now…’ Silje looked around the room. There was a map on the occasional table, held flat with two pistols and an ammunition clip. Next to Freya’s chair, a sewing kit and a pile of tunics taken from German uniforms. ‘Now I would very much like to know what is going on.’
Magnus and Gunther looked at each other.
Silje stepped past Freya so she could stand in front of the two men. ‘Perhaps you, Gunther – or whatever your name is – would like to tell me.’
‘My name actually is Gunth—’
‘I do not care. Dear God, Magnus, you have brought the Resistance to the village, haven’t you? And you have involved Freya? Have you lost your mind?’
‘He did not involve me, Silje. I asked to be involved.’
Silje picked up one of the tunics; there was a needle and thread lodged near a hole in the breast pocket. She showed it to Magnus. ‘An impressive shot.’
‘It wasn’t me,’ he said glumly.
‘You?’
Gunther shook his head.
‘And it certainly wasn’t Freya.’
‘It might have been,’ Freya mumbled.
‘She is helping us with the captured uniforms,’ Gunther said, adding that her skill with the needle was inhuman. He picked up another tunic lying on the floor. ‘Two shots: one to the stomach, the other to the chest. Look. Not a mark. No blood, no signs of repair.’
Silje could almost hear Freya swelling with pride. ‘She is very clever.’
‘With these uniforms we will be able to—’
‘Freya, you are coming home with me, this instant.’
Mrs Tufte, famous throughout the village for appearing at the worst possible moments, returned from the kitchen and placed the tray of tea and biscuits on top of the map.
‘She is not going anywhere with you, traitor,’ she said. ‘And how was your dinner with the General, by the by?’
Magnus restrained his sister before she could move.
‘I asked you to keep her safe, and what have you done? You have allowed the Resistance to use her!’
‘No one is using me, Silje! I want to help!’
‘Freya, be silent! I am trying to—’
‘You are trying to control me!’
‘Control you? My God, how can you say something so wicked!’
‘Silje, please mind what you say now.’
‘Magnus, shut up! Now you listen to me, Freya. You will go to your room, pack your things and—’
‘She will do no such thing!’ shouted Mrs Tufte.
‘And you,’ Silje seethed. ‘You are trying to take her from me. You are as bad as Marit! Because your husband abandoned you for another, you cannot bear to see anyone live their life less bitterly than you!’
‘I do not belong to you, Silje,’ said Freya.
‘My husband did not abandon me! He is dead, as you well know, Silje Ohnstad!’
‘He is not dead! He is living in a big house on the edge of Fredrickstad with nine children! Nine!’
Gunther blinked and threw an enquiring look at Magnus who shrugged and said nothing.
‘That is a wicked thing to say, Silje Ohnstad! Truly wicked! You will burn in hell for the lies you’ve told and the men you’ve ruined!’
Gunther’s mouth fell open, but this time he found that Magnus refused to meet his eyes.
Freya reached out to find Silje’s arm, holding onto her sleeve as tightly as she could.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Come with me,’ said Freya. ‘We’re going outside. We will have words, you and I, and I do not wish anyone I care for to hear them.’
Mrs Tufte smiled triumphantly as Freya led Silje away through to the kitchen.
‘I am just trying to do what is best for you, you silly child!’
‘I understand that.’
Silje closed the kitchen door behind them, and allowed herself to be led through to Mrs Tufte’s garden. ‘Then why won’t you let me?’
‘Because as I keep trying to tell you, I am not a child!’
They reached the end of the garden and crossed a narrow log laid over the barren brook that ran the length of the village. The light was fading and as they carried on towards the trees, Silje realised that again she would have only Freya’s affinity with the darkness to guide her.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Somewhere we can be alone.’
‘Why?’
‘You know why.’
Silje’s stomach tightened; her mouth, inexplicably, filled with salt water. She swallowed and said, ‘I am not sure that is wise.’
‘I am very sure it is not, but it is all I have thought about since you cast me from your cottage.’
‘I did not cast… You exaggerate, Freya, and it is a trait most unbecoming.’
‘Then I shall add that to the scroll of the million other things you despise about me.’
‘And you exaggerate still…’
They lost the moon as soon as they entered the trees. A few more yards and Silje found herself completely blind. ‘You know I do not like it when you do this. You know I do not like the dark.’
‘It is good for you to walk in my footsteps once in a while. Perhaps then you will understand that I do not need you to carry for me, or lead me, or look out for me. I will always be grateful to you and I will always love you, but my life is my own.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said that my life is my own.’
‘Before that!’
‘I said I will always be grateful to you.’
‘Are you playing with me?’
‘No.’ Freya let go of her hand and Silje walked into a tree. ‘Now, I am playing with you.’
A litany of chastisements sat poised on Silje’s tongue, but before she could utter a single one, Freya pressed herself against her back, pinning her to the pine tree. Silje dug her nails into the moist wood and squeezed her eyes shut. ‘I did not cast you out.’
Freya reached inside Silje’s dress and began twisting and kneading her breast, pushing down against her nipple with her thumb.
‘I did not cast you out,’ Silje repeated, her words expelled in sharp bursts. ‘I sent you away for your own good.’ The hem of her dress was drawn to her waist. Freya’s free hand began struggling with her undergarments.
‘You sent me away because the only thing that frightens you more than being unable to control people is being unable to control yourself.’
Silje moved her feet apart and planted them, sinking her fingernails still deeper into the pine tree. ‘That is not true.’
‘It is true, even if you won’t admit it to yourself.’
‘Here, let me…’ Silje pushed her hand away and began undoing the fastenings o
f her underclothes.
‘I can do it myself, Silje!’ Freya said, slapping her hand. She went to work on the buttons again, this time releasing them with deft flicks of her index finger and thumb.
Silje asked why she was so angry. ‘You were never like this when you lived with us.’ Freya’s hand slid into her undergarments, setting her senses aflame. The smell of the pine filled her nostrils; the cotton of her dress scratched and tore at her skin; the pounding of her heart was so strong she thought it would burst her ribcage.
‘I am angry because you treat me like a child.’
Silje moistened and parted. She breathed the scent of the bark through her open mouth; Freya’s fingers slipped inside her.
‘What do you expect when you behave like one?’ Silje breathed, locking her knees to prevent her legs from giving way.
‘You see? This is what I mean. You speak to me like I am ten years old.’
Silje could smell cinnamon, and hear the sound of Erik’s laughter – so clearly that if she were not lost to her desire she would have surely pushed Freya away. And then General Gruetzmacher whispered to her: magic, an evil magic born of the Semite. A magic with the power to seduce… and to her shame she wondered if the General was so mad after all.
‘How do you think I survived before I met you, Silje?’
‘I think,’ said Silje breathlessly, ‘that it had much to do with your father.’
Freya fell silent. Her breath seared. Her fingers drove deeper and so harshly that Silje’s whole body was pushed upward against the bark of the tree. It scratched her flesh, drew blood from her cheek. She reached behind her and ran her hand down Freya’s stomach, slipping inside her dress and down further until she found the mound of coarse hair, and then further still, between her legs, feeling her moist flesh open and close around her fingers. Freya’s heart pounded against Silje’s back, and her teeth sank into her shoulder. Silje clamped her jaw shut to stop herself from crying out.
‘I’m hurting you.’
‘No.’ Silje shook her head. ‘No, go on.’
And so Freya turned her wrist again, easing her fingers deeper still. Silje held her breath and her release came, sending waves of pleasure from her groin to her neck, hardening her spine and snapping the air between her bones. She gasped and Freya withdrew from her, holding on to her as she slid to the ground. The stones were cold and sharp, like blades pressed against her skin. She fought back the urge to cry: for shame, for joy, she did not care which. She shivered, though she was not cold; she wanted nothing more than to sleep. She could not remember when she felt so free, as though she were as tall as the world was vast and the mountain was a stone she could hold in her hand.
The grass cracked like ice under Freya’s feet. She was moving.
‘Are you there?’
‘I am here,’ Freya said. She sounded out of breath; her voice rattled though she tried to hide it.
Silje leaned back against the tree, still feeling its bark between her teeth. The silence closed in again, for a lifetime, or so it seemed. She could hear Freya sighing, once after every sixth breath. The sounds of the animals had vanished, perhaps years ago; Silje was no longer sure of anything.
‘I had dinner with Gruetzmacher,’ she said quickly, fearing the silence as much as she feared the dark.
After a moment, Freya replied, ‘I am sorry. I would never have wished that upon you.’
The silence returned, chilling her until Freya spoke again. ‘What is he like?’
‘He is weak,’ Silje replied in a heartbeat. ‘He did something terrible, years ago, and he lacks the courage to face it. He believes a Jew made him do it, that Jews are demons, that you are all in league with the devil, that you have magic that can turn a man in on himself. He believes you can steal souls.’
The tree shook, and Silje felt a wave of heat laced with cinnamon. Even though Freya was now sitting beside her, she still could not see her.
‘And do you believe that, Silje? Do you think I am a demon?’
‘I think you have stolen my soul.’
‘Then perhaps I should take my own life, if it will show you that I am as human as you.’
‘What you are, or what people say you are, does not matter to me. If you are a witch who captures souls then you have already taken mine. If you possess the power to make people fall in love with you then I am already lost, and if the spell cannot be broken then I no longer care.’
Freya’s calloused fingertips caressed her cheek. Silje tilted her head into her hand and kissed her palm.
‘It was while I dined with the General that I realised that he and I are not so different.’
‘You are nothing like him, Silje. Do not say such things.’
‘It is true. He hides behind lies because he cannot face the truth of what he did to that poor girl. And I am the same. I was cruel to you. I pushed you away because I feared my yearning for you. You are beautiful, Freya, but you are young. It does not feel right; it will never feel right, and God help me, I don’t care.’
Freya rested her head against her chest. ‘I am not so young as you think, Silje. I will be—’
‘Nineteen next week.’ Silje sighed, barely able to move her lungs. ‘We should go back. They will begin to wonder why we spend so much time out on such a cold night.’
‘I am not cold.’
‘That is the fortitude of youth.’
Freya laughed. ‘And you are not so old as you pretend to be, Silje Ohnstad.’
Her laugh was shrill and new, and Silje did suddenly feel very old.
‘We can stay a while longer,’ said Freya, kissing her mouth.
A light came on in the cottage, and Silje was not surprised to see she had been looking in the wrong direction. The light was put out, almost as quickly. Magnus, she thought. He is worried. But she knew he would not venture out; he would trust Freya to bring her back. Thinking of Magnus now felt strange: a series of images, a moving picture playing inside her head. She realised that she spent most of her waking hours consumed with Magnus, or her father, or the village, or the newsletter, or her dead mother.
But not now. Not this night. She wondered if she would ever feel so consumed again. Freya’s hand slipped between her legs; Silje gasped and bowed her head. She inhaled deeply, filling her throat with the scent of her hair.
Chapter 26
When Silje opened the rear door, Magnus, Gunther and Mrs Tufte were huddled together in one corner of the kitchen. It was the corner furthest from the window which was still misted over from having three faces pressed against it.
‘We were worried,’ said Magnus. ‘What the hell were you talking about?’ He craned his neck to get a better look at his sister. ‘Your cheek is bleeding. Have you been fighting?’
Freya stepped inside and went to stand by the stove.
‘So.’ Mrs Tufte looked anxious. ‘Have we reached an accord?’
‘Freya will stay here for the time being,’ said Silje. ‘You are right, Mrs Tufte; the Germans visit our home so frequently now she would surely be discovered.’ She could tell that Mrs Tufte was overjoyed, but at least she tried to hide it. This raised her slightly in Silje’s eyes.
‘And I will continue to help with the uniforms,’ Freya added quickly.
Gunther cried, ‘That is excellent news!’
‘And I trust you, Gunther – if that is indeed your real name – will not endanger her further.’
‘She will not be in any danger,’ said Magnus.
‘I was not asking you.’ She stared pointedly at Gunther, who began to look as though someone was holding his hand over a naked flame. ‘Well?’
‘On my life, Miss Ohnstad.’
‘Good.’
Gunther licked his lips, and with a sideways glance at Magnus, said, ‘And perhaps, Silje, we can look to you for support.’
‘We talked about this, Gunther,’ said Magnus. ‘The answer is no.’
‘I think perhaps Silje should hear us out.’
Freya’s ey
es moved wildly around the room as though she’d suddenly lost sight of Silje. ‘You can’t involve her! You said you wouldn’t!’
‘I know what I said, but our need is great and Silje can turn—’
‘I do not care! Do not ask. If you do then you can find someone else to fix your uniforms.’
Silje said, ‘Freya, let him speak.’
Freya folded her arms and pursed her lips. Silje thought that in the same way Erik was most handsome when he was angry, Freya was more beautiful when she was sulking.
Gunther said, ‘Thank you, Silje.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I will speak as plainly as I can.’
‘I am not an idiot.’
‘No, of course. Right, do you know what cryptography is?’
Silje cursed inside her head. She wondered if it was the study of crypts, but decided that such an activity would not serve the Effort and so was, in all likelihood, incorrect. Feeling somewhat foolish, she shook her head.
‘That’s fine,’ Gunther said quickly, ‘not many people have heard of it. It is the science of encoding messages so that they cannot be read by the enemy.’ He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out what appeared to be a fat cigar case. ‘We use different methods of hiding messages when transporting them between resistance cells: hollow shoe heels, fake books. This is my own personal favourite. It is rare that our fighters are caught carrying messages in one of these.’
Silje scratched her head. ‘Where do you hide that?’
Gunther looked at Magnus, who picked at his fingernail while looking impassively unhelpful. ‘She’s all yours,’ he said.
Gunther coughed. ‘Internally.’
Freya giggled, Silje felt her ears redden, and Mrs Tufte decided it was time for her to return to the parlour. ‘Come along, Freya. This conversation is not for ears as young as yours.’
‘I am not a child.’
‘Go with her,’ said Silje, ‘please.’
Freya reluctantly did what was asked of her, dragging her feet as she followed Mrs Tufte into the other room. When the door had closed, Gunther continued. ‘If the messages are discovered, many lives are lost, so they are encoded.’
‘Unfortunately, the Germans are adept at code-breaking,’ said Magnus, ‘and this has cost us dearly.’ His skin turned ashen. Silje wondered who he had lost, and marvelled at how great the distance between them had grown. Her twin was in mourning and she had not felt it.
The Quisling Orchid Page 25
